


closed stacks

by SecretReyloTrash (BadOldWest)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Academia, Ben Is a Professor But Not Rey’s Professor, Ben Solo with Glasses, Ben has Copious Amounts of Research to Get Done, But Then So Does Rey..., Cock Warming, F/M, Kinks: Old Books, Liberties Are Taken By Author, Library Assistant Rey, Literal Book Porn, Mentions of past abuse, Mild Roasting of Bookstagrammers, Modern AU, Oxford, Scars, Semi-Public Sex, Setting: Library, Smut then "oh by the way what's your name?", Strangers-Kinda, Suspension of Disbelief that They Do Not Get Caught, Unprotected Sex, lapsitting, researcher Ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26529637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadOldWest/pseuds/SecretReyloTrash
Summary: Rey will never forget the library assistant who showed her how to handle the rare books with such extreme care. When the tables turn years later and he winds up at the enquiry desk: she can show him exactly what she’s learned.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 62
Kudos: 706





	closed stacks

**Author's Note:**

> Many liberties taken with library hours/security/number of employees around during closing. It’s all for the cockwarming porn. 

Dog-ears, ripped covers, black scribbles, broken spines. Her books always had battle scars. 

Classmates would actually shudder when she flung her textbooks out of her bag and onto the table with their shredded covers and then tossed them thoughtlessly back into her bag again when the session was over. In secondary school she was stuck with the biology textbook for a full year that a foster parent’s dog had taken a chunk out of and when she opened it, teeth marks pocked the entire lower corner, she’d see the people behind her in class flinch at the sight.

Rey didn’t much care. 

Books were meant to be read, bearing a marker of ruin, as a note of completion in their intended use. They were heavy and cumbersome and got in the way of things: of course they got all scuffed up in the mix. Rey never knew books when they were new. She never met them in that part of their life, untouched like virgin sacrifices, and was annoyed with people who treated them as if they were some kind of religious icon. Her own few editions she was able to actually  _ own _ were feathered and dusty and torn. No less worthy in content, battle-scarred, something that had seen action. There was almost a contempt for  _ the care and keeping of fashionable books  _ that had haunted her along with all the other trendy prestige surrounding her time at University _. _

She’d look at the social media check-ins at a local cafe to see what kind of  _ food _ people actually ordered while they were there and instead see a library of sepia-filtered hardcovers taken from the counter silhouette by crisp afternoon light by the window with students prattling on in a caption about  _ the smell of a new book in the Autumn _ like it was just a pretty thing. 

And it usually was a pretty shite book being waxed poetical about. 

Her copy of Jane Eyre had survived a flood, a kitchen fire, and a small beating: history wore itself into the covers fast. It still read the same on a rainy Saturday afternoon no matter how worn Maybe that’s why Rey liked battered old things, old books, because they showed their wear while still being the thing they were meant to be. 

It wasn’t until a late evening in the library when a pair of gloved hands spread open an ancient text for her did she see that the deliberation and care, a preciousness about them, was equal to her way of loving them. Perhaps superior. 

Rey was only there that night because she was forced. And even then, she had never been at the University library  _ this _ late. Her crotchety professor would not hear of it when she insisted she didn’t need to consult this ancient book the library kept in a temperature-controlled room, only available by request, for her final paper. And so she was stuck in a chair at a reading room table waiting for someone to retrieve it with an awful lot of ceremony. Sacred texts. This all felt too cultish for an undergrad, but if she was going to be continuing on for graduate school for history next year, she would certainly have to do this eventually.

She actually held her breath watching the library assistant wheel out the old tome and set it in a cradle in front of her, held open at the perfect angle so not to agitate the ancient spine, the strong arms delivering the book holding it with weight supported on both ends like a baby. 

This was not being fussy about a third-printing bestseller picked up from Waterstones for the sake of a picture, but an antiquity only to be accessed by a  _ scholar. _ One who felt like the imposter of one in her seat at the reading room when witnessing the book’s proper treatment. It all took such care. 

“A bit daunting, isn’t it?” a low, resonant voice murmured over her shoulder. 

A book that couldn’t be held. A book that couldn’t be touched because the oils on her hands would damage it. That was hardly a book at all, if it could barely be  _ read. _

She couldn’t look back at the same assistant who had capably set her up with a text probably worth more than the building she lived in. 

“It feels like you’re trusting me with something more fragile than it’s worth,” she whispered, scared that if she raised her voice above that volume the pages would disintegrate into dust. 

She was surprised by the warm tremble of his laughter.

“Don’t think of the pages as fragile. Think of them as—sensitive.”

She was not sure why the word made her sit up straighter.

_ “Oh. _ Right.”

“Just be gentle,” he placed a pair of white cloth gloves beside her right hand, “and patient. This book has held its secrets for hundreds of years; you can wait to find them for a few more hours.”

It made the book seem magical. 

She hadn’t looked at him yet out of nerves that she’d be scolded for her inexperience by a zealous librarian, or if she took her eyes off the book it would vanish into dust and she’d be thrown out, but she managed a turn of her chin over her shoulder to look at him. 

But he was already wheeling the cart away. For all the things she was picturing it was not the broad back and rich dark hair retreating down the aisle from her. Curiosity set fangs into her.

She didn’t blame him for not hanging back to talk to her longer. It was the middle of the night. She never saw him again because it was such an odd hour to be at the library, an extension of hours done by the professor himself who seemed too powerful to be challenged. But the memory always contained the wish that he had lingered then by her seat, not only so she could put a face to his voice, but also because it was such a strangely profound moment. 

  
  


* * *

Rey hasn’t exactly been precious with her own books after that: but she hardly knew how much that moment influenced her thinking until she found herself working at the Enquiry Desk later when she was finishing up her Masters. Those weren’t her books, they were the  _ library’s, _ so she felt the distinction wasn’t hypocritical when she instructed people how to handle the texts properly.

It was a wonderful sense of control, instead of being a bull in a china shop, she was a caretaker. Someone who could handle with appropriate gentleness. A little of herself went into the effort, the affection, that she could carry the books back to their shelves with no harm done like she was laying down a baby for a nap. 

An ancient baby, older than Queen Victoria, with too many vowels swapped for _Ys._

She probably thinks about that assistant once a night when she is manning the cart, or carrying the rare books out of the closed stacks. She never repeats his advice quite in the exact same way to other library patrons, it feels too fragile and sacred to share his exact words with anyone else, but some version of it often spills from her lips to people handling the volumes that need care.

So she’s surprised when she sets up the cradle box at the seat of one of the researchers tonight she hears a faint, familiar chuckle at the second-nature advice she always peppers in. 

Students will start arriving at the end of September, so it’s mostly Doctoral candidates and professors getting a head start on their newest publications this time of year. Rey doesn’t exactly have anywhere to go in the summer, so she’s always here, especially the hours no one else will work. Graveyard shifts are like pence on the ground, she can’t just walk away and leave them there, it’s too ingrained that she might need them.

The laugh disrupts the dry dust of the library’s entire aura.

She turns in surprise to the researcher who had requested this specific book. He’s large, athletic-looking, not exactly the typical eyeful she’s gleaned from men in academia. His silky black hair is tucked behind his ears and he dresses neatly, more formally than most people doing some late-night reading at the library tend to. 

She doesn’t  _ think _ she recognizes him. But he smiles at her knowingly. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just that it seems the student has become the master.”

Her brow furrows in confusion as she wordlessly sets down the largest pair of gloves she can find for him on the table next to his hands. 

“I used to work here as well,” he clarifies, “when I was working on my DPhil. I remember you coming in once as a student.”

Rey blinks at him in shock. 

_ “Oh. _ I remember you.”

She hopes it doesn’t freak him out that this discovery has rendered her utterly breathless. 

He blushes, taking off a pair of reading glasses. It adds an intimacy to this conversation she can’t help but swallow at. Like he’s really paying attention to her. She fidgets with her cart: pumping it back and forth to straighten all the wheels out. Even if she’s only lingered for a moment, she doesn’t want to get caught dawdling over a handsome professor in case she wants to be able to come back. Already she’s getting possessive of this seat, his attentiveness. As much as he marveled at her ascension just now: she wants to switch places. Take a seat and have him guide her again, because it felt good.

“I did too, when I saw you.”

A throat clears at the other end of the table. A scholar waiting impatiently for their request. Right. Her job.

Rey bows her head, cutting the conversation short. She doesn’t want to be  _ that girl.  _ Rey is open and smiles a lot and gives a lot of wrong ideas to people. Plenty of academics have tried to slither under her skirt. Working with people has always meant she’s needed to be guarded or else...advantages are taken. And even if there was interest on her side, fawning all over a professor doing his research isn’t exactly maintaining her own safety, especially while she’s working. 

She scurries away with her cart realizing she never asked for his name. 

* * *

He comes to the desk an hour later with a request slip. 

She hasn’t been watching him from her seat. Much. 

He’s not for watching in the way she used to watch boys in school. He doesn’t fidget. It’s not about trying to read the languid movements of a male body, half-asleep and becoming more comfortable in a melting slouch over the course of the hours. It’s not like she turns and he’s doing anything new and interesting. He just works through the book steadily, carefully penning his notes, a look of concentration that keeps his expression tense so it doesn’t really change. 

His limbs naturally stretch in his seat, heels resting on the floor all the way on the other side of the table. His chest and spine curled to hunch in the seat slightly, not badly, just to be eye-level with the book. The graceful, absent flicker of motion when he turns a page.

She likes that she looks back and he’s exactly how her eyes left him. He’s lovely to watch, so she still does, but there’s also a safety and a pulse of longing in her when he’s still...there.

But now there’s an energy to him, standing, addressing her:

“I know it’s near closing, but if I could trouble you—” his pause stretches on for a long time, waiting for something, until she furrows her brow in confusion.  _ “—your name?” _

“Rey,” she fills in, feeling like she was called on in class and had no answer.

“Rey," he smiles, feeling it in his mouth like a piece of candy, "I’d appreciate it.”

“Not a problem,” she means it. There is an earnest like he needs her to access what he needs, not like she’s there to fulfill his every whim. That’s rare from this institution. 

He gives her a crooked smile. Glasses are back on. Hair is untucked from his ears. 

She forgets to ask for his name again.

She waits for her blush to cool off as she enters into the temperature-controlled basement. At least the elevator down feels private enough to try and calm down during her descent. It doesn’t take long to find what he’s looking for. 

The trouble is that it looks like it weighs more than a small child. 

Rey grunts and lifts the book carefully with both hands. It is both the size and heft of a cinderblock, but also delicate as a butterfly wing. A wrong breath might rend it to dust. 

Luckily it’s the only thing she has to retrieve: her cart is mostly re-shelves because things are clearing out for the night, but she wants to swap the cart out for a baby stroller. 

She’s back up with the book as briskly as possible to start closing, hoping he just needs a quick look. 

Again, her openness, a rush to accommodate might get her into trouble. It’s a relief to see there’s at least another hour until closing. It’s not that late that he asked, he may have even asked at a time he knew was his last chance because he knew the job, and could get what he needed finished in that time. It just felt late: one of the last nights of summer, it seemed everyone wanted to go home instead of feeling the intensity of the semester chaining them to the desk. 

Maybe he can conduct some sorcery to find exactly what he needs quickly, so she can ride that same fleeting airiness home too. 

“I brought you your manuscript,” she breathes in a cheery, too-obedient tone that makes her halt when she hears herself. Needing to knock her own excitement off the ladder it was climbing and onto grim, cold ground. Her otherwise empty cart makes her feel too obliging. Getting choked up over a man who she probably elevated to an Idol’s pedestal in her memories. She’s distracted by her embarrassment as she reaches him and lifts the book again, trying to harden her outer shell. Her hands don’t get the best grip on the centuries-old anvil of a text.

Horror fills her as the weight of the passive tome makes her arms tremble. She’s not exactly a weak creature, she’s proud of her muscles, but the book has to be held in such a specific way that it strains each and every single one as she holds it aloft. Reaching over him complicates the attempt to set it down in a sufficiently gentle way. 

“Hold on.”

He slides a glove neatly into his right hand. He’s used to these old gloves, newcomers often struggle with them and their tangled fingers, but he’s got the first one on in one fluid motion and is quick to tackle the second. One after the other, fluttering under where she holds the book as steadily as she can. Then, from below, he catches the book from her as carefully as if it’s a child. 

That same gentleness. 

“It’s alright,” he soothes, because she hasn’t let go even though he holds most of the weight and her arms are shaking, “I’ve got it.”

Rey lets out a breath over his shoulder as she releases it into his hands. It honestly looked, for a moment, from tip to base of the spine, like a doctor holding a baby as it exited the womb. That awe and power in how he held it. 

It  _ was  _ just a book, Rey tried to tell herself, but his way of handling it in his gloved hands made it sacred. 

And perhaps saved her from being sacked for dropping an artifact

He sets it down in the cradle with a tense sigh. And then laughs, his own shoulders shaking in relief. 

“Quite a team we make.”

She hides her face in her gloved hands. Dropping it could have torn the pages straight from the spine. Destroying a relic. Losing her job.

She peeks at him when he doesn’t scold her. She knows that he knows better about how badly this could have ended.

“You don’t judge me too much?”

His eyes are warm. 

“You have to be strong to haul these around, which you are, and you have to be tender with them, and I’ve seen you with the books. You are. Blending the two takes practice.”

A flush heats her neck. 

How closely had he been watching her?

He breaks through her mind’s frantic question with a kind smile. 

“You should have seen me when I first started. The burning of the Library of Alexandria had nothing on me.”

The mere thought makes her shiver in horror, but also laugh, because it’s a kind reassurance. 

“Could I ask something from you, Rey?”

His voice is sweet and intimate.

_ Touch me gently, be patient, I’m sensitive too. _

“Depends on what you ask.”

Like she wasn’t totally sunk for him.

He takes off his glasses.

A goner.

“The sheer size of this thing: I really hadn’t anticipated it. I may need more time. I know you close in an hour, but if it’s just us here when the time comes, could I keep you here a little late while I go over this? I won’t ask you to lie if you have to kick everyone else out. I’ll go. But if it is just between us...”

_ So intimate.  _

Rey mentally kicks herself. Bad brain. He’s working on a book. Academics at this institution will trick, cheat, and steal their way into completing their work. She shouldn’t let herself be charmed out of her evening by a pair of pretty eyes. 

But it’s a late night alone with him. 

She shakes off the hope in this, what it could be for. 

“I—shouldn’t,” he nods like he expected this, completely understanding. Because he doesn’t try to charm his way out of her rejection, though, “—but I will give you more time after hours if you make it up to me.”

He raises his eyebrows at her, intrigued.

“How do you suppose I do that?”

Her own boldness cautions her. She swallows, taking a step back with her empty book cart, before starting to roll away. 

“I’ll have to think about it.”

* * *

It’s that selfish, foolish risk of giving up something she wants for  _ someone _ she wants, possibly to not even have. Almost criminal when growing up with so little. There’s little more tempting than the sight of him in his chair: but sunsets at this time of year are just so deliciously multi-hued, like the skin of a peach, the lushness of the evening at dusk makes her sulk at the pink-orange glow from the window like a child stuck inside on a rainy day. 

It doesn’t help the time pass any faster by looking up at him every two minutes. Especially when he reads with such perfect stillness and focus. 

Boredom slows the blood in her veins. When she’d agreed to this, despite his pure intentions to get some work done, she had hoped it’d be a little bit more  _ fun. _ She’s taken to wheeling the empty cart past him every once in a while just to check. He doesn’t stir from his work. She could get up on the table and do a dance for him and he probably wouldn’t even blink. 

And she doesn’t want to distract him. She doesn’t want to interrupt this. It’s so beautiful to see him in the dim lamplight. There's a spell to it she doesn't want to break, but wants to feel the magic of on herself. She wants to be a part of it as it is, testing his strong thighs like the limbs of a tree. She can be delicate with him, like he’s sensitive to her breath and the touch of her skin. Touching him where cloth will keep him un-compromised. Balancing her weight. 

It gives her an idea that she should forget  _ immediately. _

There was a way for this to work. It didn’t involve parking herself on his table and asking nicely. She was used to egos around here. What she was looking for involved hoping he even remembered that he owed her when they left later that evening, and then breathing and pretending she didn’t couldn’t think of whatever even was owed to her, again, hoping he’d suggest a date. Then it was trying a little too hard to seem like someone he’d want across the table from him, and maybe sex like all sex that requires meeting someone in public first and feeling foolish and awkward and vulnerable in someone’s apartment, or trying to apologize to a stranger for her own. All of that was a little too much waiting and a little too much hoping and trying a little too hard to be the right fit for a stranger.

_ Suggesting _ he take her out as her own idea was, for academic men who were so possessive of their ideas, something they spurned. It wounded pride in a remarkably prehistoric way for men looking to advance themselves: that a girl would have to ask for herself and question that a man would ever get around to it. 

With her, they’d better get the idea quick or she lost interest as well. Rey was up front about not liking to be kept waiting. It was a show of dominance that many fled from. 

He does look up the third time she wheels past him through the empty library. A curious expression in his eyes as they trail her movements. 

Then he goes back to reading.

This all involved a long process of things Rey hated. Waiting. Dangling herself. Trying and failing because she wasn’t wanted for being so bold. Rejection.

Then what was there to lose in trying to get what she wanted either way? 

Her feet move her body to his side as the thoughts empty into the ether. She doesn’t have her cart this time. With a rough swipe, she brushes the sweat from her palms onto her wool skirt.

Surprisingly, he turns away from the book to regard her immediately. Just as sensitive and careful with her. 

“I know what I want. To make it—make it up to me.”

He sets aside his glasses: perhaps concerned that a simple act of reciprocity for a favor has clearly made her anxious and trembling before him. 

“You may have it.”

Deep breath.

“I want to sit in your lap while you finish up.”

She doesn’t expect his reaction. She just wants to get it out there in the open and then run away when he laughs at her. Her plan never involved ever getting that far. 

So she doesn’t expect him to fold over in his chair and press his brow to her hip, nuzzling the wool of her skirt, groaning with need as his hands gather her to his body. Then  _ she _ gasps. All she did was nudge, and he collapsed for her.

“Nothing would make me happier.”

She threads her shaking hands in his hair. It’s past closing. Doors are locked. She’s a perfect employee after the example he set that one chance meeting back when she was a student. This is her only infraction. Even then, she’s not _officially_ on the clock and should be home by now. They’re alone, they’re safe, and from the way he is mouthing at her tummy through her blouse, he won’t tell on her.

Mutual desire scatters over her skin like fairy dust. 

She had felt so intense, unwieldy, that she hadn’t expected him to intensify things with his own want.

“D-do you know what I’m asking for?” she falters, needing to make sure he’s clear on exactly what he’s agreeing to.

“You can have  _ whatever  _ you want from me, Rey,” he swears, hands diving under her skirt to slide her tights down her legs. 

He’s been quick to grasp her meaning then.

“I want to be sure—”

His thumbs rub over her hip bones in wide circles. Her head falls back in pleasure.

“Then  _ say it,” _ he coaxes, awe on his face as she lets him touch her, roaming all the knobby bones of her pelvis with fascination, “tell me exactly what you want.”

She bites her lip until he draws her closer, his eyes hungry and hands grasping and fierce. The want between them locks like two magnets perfectly suited to each other. Neither shy away. It’s amazing, like playing with those forces as a child, feeling the tension and repulsion and then the snap of two things matching and joining.

“Not just your lap. While you work, I want to be your—your cocksleeve.”

A wanting, approving growl travels from low to loud and resonant.

But she still shies away when her knickers are yanked down to her knees by his rough hands. 

He doesn’t lose his focus, but he turns his attention to her face.

“What’s wrong?”

There’s that balance. Wanting to be good. Bringing him his books. Watching from the desk and hoping. Needing to be naughty, stuffed full on his lap while he works.   
_“But I don’t want to disturb you,”_ she whispers, even though she knows they’re the only people left in the library this late.

He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and raises the hem of her skirt up to peek underneath. There’s a low, awed exhale she feels on her skin. Inner thighs growing wet as he stares, muscles tensing and fidgeting, just long enough to make her whimper and squirm.

“You’re not disturbing me.”

_ “But—” _

His hand dips under her skirt and his thumb presses expertly to her clit in a slow swirl, like coaxing the combination of a lock open. It makes her head fall back and her legs tremble. There’s so much promise in the touch, meeting her halfway, all she needed was for him to budge a little but he catches her, he’s carrying her, it’s so good.

Her body craves it. Gentle hand. Firm hand. Someone who knows exactly how to handle her.

He must understand the look on his face because a look of pure, absorbing dominance travels across his face. He looks her over with her tights at her ankles, her underwear around her knees, and her skirt barely covering her thighs with his hand moving underneath. All of her tense and longing and shaking.

“You’re being a distraction like this.”

The scolding tone of his voice makes her arch her spine in bliss.

He presses her ass into the edge of the table so she can lean for him to pull her undergarments down her legs.  _ Yes. _ This is what she needed. For him to take control. She kicks off her shoes now that she has somewhere to put her weight and everything from under the skirt comes off.

He sits back in his chair to unbuckle the belt of his trousers while she works on her own clothes. Her head swims with lust. This is too perfect to be true. The memory she held of his voice, even without a face, had felt like such a perfect moment that she revisited it with every ounce of lucidity she had. But this was unreal. That he would accommodate her. 

_ Make me take it. Make me be good for you. _

Her thighs start quaking when he unfastens his fly and frees his cock. He’s hard already. Leaning back in his seat, he looks her over again with his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He runs the thumb coating in her wetness up and down his own length. She’s managed to arouse him from merely a question: in saying what she wants, even just her own idea, it’s clear how much he wants this too. 

She wants to look longer at his bare cock with the shine of her slick gleaming on the head and let herself salivate at the thought of it inside her so soon; but sooner than even that he has her in his lap with legs spread over his thighs.

“I can handle you both,” he promises with measured confidence, a kiss sifting between the messy strands of her hair. Rey squirms on his lap as he pets his cock through her soaked folds. “But don’t be messy, or you’ll be in trouble.”

She moans at the threat and wraps her arms around his neck. He’s broad enough that she feels she could fall asleep like this, and that’s all before the perfect, adrenalized stretch as she sinks down and he fills her up the first few inches. 

Her hands grasp his shirt helplessly. He’s  _ really _ big. If she hadn’t been waiting on that stool at the help desk, legs dangling and picturing exactly this and already dripping for him, it might have been impossible. The muscles of her thighs pulse and strain to lower her body before he’s fully inside. He holds her hips up in the tremor and bows his head to rest against hers, brow to brow.

“Patience,” he instructs through a held breath. It’s not quite so easy for him either. “You’re better than a good book. I’d like to hold you open on my lap every Saturday afternoon.”

Then he pushes his chair in with her tucked safely on his lap and resumes reading.

It felt wonderful to be so delicate. Thighs quaking against his hips. She wiggles to coax more of him inside. Once he’s hilt, she’ll go still. Once she feels him all—

“So what’re you afraid of now,” she breathes against his neck, shifting her hips to take more of him, “cracking my spine?”

He breathes out harshly once and bucks up into her. 

“We have to be gentle with you, Rey.”

From his flat, distracted tone, he’s still reading, which is surprisingly exactly what she wants. For him to be only half-interested. It’s a rough edge against the right part of her mind to rub up against. He’s so mean, but also important, yet still gives some of himself to her.

He strokes her bare thigh for a moment, his circling thumb coming upon a scar. Pausing. Worrying the raised mark, the inhuman smoothness of the line almost plasticized above her skin.

It’s why it’s so dangerous to tell someone what she wants,  _ for them to want her, _ and have them not give it when wanting her upon discovering who she is. A more complicated text than they’re able to read, the wrong language. Trying to hide a battered cover when that seems to tell the whole story. 

Clothes on had felt safer, but she couldn’t hide everything. She thought of the book in front of him, and the scratches along the leather, ancient skin, that would never heal. And the way he treated it to make sure it wouldn’t have any other marks it could never heal from. 

“I’m not fragile,” she sighs, almost defensive, her limbs coming up to cuddle the length of his solid body. 

“Not fragile,” he agrees and she hears the scratch of pen on paper. _ “Rare.” _

He’s writing something down. Even as his hand seals over the scar like he can warm her skin enough for it to melt off. She can see his throat and shoulder and hair, but other than that, it’s just his voice again, and the library window where she can see the dome of the Radcliffe Camera outside. Dense velvet sky. Moonlight on honey-colored brick. 

This is the part she dreads. When they falter at the first breadcrumb of an entire trail through her soul.  _ There’s more where that came from.  _ She could strip off her clothes.  _ Look at this.  _ But instead he accepts her scar as a historian and catalogues it, moves on, continuously exploring. 

Her eyes flutter closed. She should be home. Asleep. That’s about as exciting as her life has been lately. Early to bed and early to rise to drag herself through ancient tomes. 

If dreams come here, they will be strange. Like how it’s strange that she can take his cock so deep and then curl around him like he’s a massive teddy bear, humming happily and soothed into his neck. It speaks to how safe she feels. She yawns, not fighting the urge to nap nearly as much as she should. 

He speaks sweetly in her ear as he cradles her.

“You delivered yourself right into my lap. I couldn’t have prayed for you and known to have asked for what you’ve given me. Good girl.”

He puts his hand on the base of her spine, the other both quietly turning pages and scribbling down notes. Her pussy is wet and swollen and he’s big enough to feel every inch inside of herself, even when inactive. A sleeping dragon. Every time she shifts her weight and embarrassing amount of blissed-out drool collects on her tongue. She has to keep swallowing it down, hiding her face every time because she doesn’t want him to know. He occasionally rocks her closer, settles her weight lower, and she lets out a pathetic groan each time that he soothes with his lips against her brow and a gentle  _ shhh. _ It almost knocks her out every time. She’s feeling heavy, sleepy, spread open on his lap like this. Stuffed full. 

“So big,” she blurts with her lips against his chin. 

He chuckles and hugs his free arm around her hips while he flips a page. The whisper of old parchment has her fluttering her eyes shut.

“I wonder if I gave you my cum,” he muses absently, the scratch of the pen combined with his words making her spine tingle, “if you could keep it in for me like this.”

_ “Uhnn,” _ she articulates: chest fluttering with caught air at the thought. 

He smirks and keeps working as she tries to keep still; but it’s like she  _ wants _ to milk his cock now. Wants to feel the flush of his seed pumping into her. He shushes her again and she flinches at her bad behavior.

“Can I kiss your neck?” she asks tentatively, looking desperately for a distraction.

He pats her hip appreciatively. It jostles her just enough to feel like the cock inside of her is alive. She squirms with a whine buried in his shoulder. 

“Of course you may.”

He keeps reading comfortably as she mouths at his throat. It’s dotted with lovely black marks like the rest of his skin. Otherwise she’d think it was made of marble. 

Kissing him gets her worked up. More than she intended. It’s a struggle to keep her lips sweet and adoring as they move across his throat. She had wanted to stay still, be good, but she’s twitching and struggling for friction because the heat of his skin on her lips feels so good.

He catches her by the hair at the base of her neck, pulling back.

“Easy.”

Defiance seems fun to try in the moment:

“What if I’m naughty? What if  _ I _ cum in your lap without even moving?”

It’s an empty threat, all for his reaction. He keeps the hand fisted in her hair in a tight leash and doesn’t even move for a second.

With his other hand he then casually turns a page and jots down a note. 

“Be good for me, stay still while I work.”

He must feel how wet she is against his thighs. It must be obvious by the muscles clenching down on him to just feel. Her head falls back from his chest as she tries to steady herself. Her eyes had fluttered closed at some point but when she opens them she just stares at the ceiling and breathes. Her cunt feels so open and exposed, even snug and tucked away on his lap, and it takes a moment to come back to herself. 

The saliva that has dripped down her chin from the corner of her mouth is a small price to pay for the moment of balance.

She doesn’t even know his name.

Once internally re-centered, Rey snuggles back against his chest and is perfectly still for him while he works. Sometimes it’s like her cunt tightens up on the stalk of him just to be sure he’s still there, but that can’t be helped, and neither can the shiver and small whimper she buries into his shirt when it happens. He just soothes her and rubs her back.

She’s not sure how long they stay like that because she falls asleep with him inside her: more peacefully that she thinks she’s ever slept. That stings when she wakes. Not the soreness of her limbs, both of them sharing a not-very comfortable library chair. But that she was in the midst of peace that couldn’t last forever. Not realistically. 

“Are you alright down there?”

Her shins are a little sore, as are her knees. Her ass has been tensed to hold herself steady and those muscles ache. That’s all bearable. Emotionally it’s harder to understand. She squeezes the tears out of her eyes. She's not quite sure why she’s crying, It just feels too good to stop. Crying is like cumming: if she can’t orgasm, then it’s a release she needs in another form. Hiding it doesn’t even seem possible at this point. All of her is liquid. There’s only the hope that he doesn’t mind.

“Yes.”

His hands roam her back as he leans in his chair, gathering her into him to cover him, instead of holding her to manage her while he did something else. He slides her legs through the arms of the chair so she can dangle them behind his back. She hadn’t thought it was possible to be closer to him. But she’s so close now, and lax, and impaled on him with nowhere to go. 

Just to be his little cocksleeve while he works.

“My father used to study sailing ships,” he whispers into her hair, “my mother needed him to watch me one day, but mentally he was stuck on a Spanish cargo ship, so he snuck me into the library and lost track of me. I wandered the stacks and managed to pull the most valuable book in the whole collection off the shelves.”

She gasps a little in horror, excited by the attention, like a child being told a ghost story. 

Her throat tenses as a shudder rolls down her spine. It’s not the details, but the safe memory, the intimate way it brushes her ear, that has her completely relaxed into his body. 

“As much as I am enjoying this little pussy…” Rey’s spine tingles as she hears him clear his throat and turn a page, “where exactly does this end for us?”

She hadn’t thought that far. Utterly silent, she clutches possessively at the sleeves of his shirt. Her tear-streaked cheek presses into his shirt. 

“I don’t know. I just wanted this.”

He clears his throat and pushes his chair back. Carefully, he sets her back on his lap a few inches to look down at her red, sweaty face. Just sitting there has caused more strain than one would expect. It’s exerting. 

“Do you want to cum?”

She falters.  _ Yes, more than anything. _

From the careful look on his face, he’ll give it to her. Probably set her up on the table and fuck her too. But this was what she asked for. He’s giving it so well. She wants it all. To be kissed. To be fucked. But her longing is so perverse and specific and has un-scrolled to be exactly what this is. To be treated as something rare and precious. 

“I want to be good for you while you work,” she admits with a swallow, “and sit here with you, and not disturb you, and keep your cock warm inside me. It’s  _ so _ big. I hadn’t guessed how big. And I guess I want to feel this way forever.  _ But that’s not a reasonable to ask—”  _

The end comes out in a rush as if she remembers herself. 

He’s been using one hand to touch her, the other to handle the book, so the gloved thumb of his left hand covers her lips to silence her. 

“I’m finished up here,” he says quietly, a note of guilt in his voice. He wants to give her what she wants. The idea that  _ he wants to _ but  _ can’t _ breaks her heart a little bit, but it’s late, and she’s a little hazy, so she’s hoping she can be a reasonable person again in the morning and pretend this whole night was a dream. 

“May I take you home to mine?” his tone is pleading. He’s been so composed until this point. “I’d like to make you cum. For waiting so patiently for me. But if that’s not what you want, I’ll just hold you exactly like this all night. We’ll lay in bed as long as you like and I’ll put my come in you. Whatever you need. You’re so good and so beautiful and God, you  _ remembered _ me _ —I— _ I just don’t want to stop.”

She’s weaker than she thought, that she folds over at his pleading tone with merely a squeak falling from her lips, her inner muscles squeezing him so tight, fired up with use without  _ use.  _ Her channel flutters around the snug fit of them together. Her spine arches and every muscle tenses. 

She cums in his lap without so much as a second touch. 

It’s a mess of wetness, and soreness now, as she bears down as the only source of friction between their bodies again and again. Just flexing a muscle has made her cum for him. Rey’s body tenses and snaps from the pressure in her body he’s been building for all this time.

“Then don’t let me stop,” she pleads, voice raspy. It doesn’t feel like accommodating when it’s pleading with him to give her exactly what she needs. His hands tighten knowingly on her hips. “Use my cunt. It’s for you.  _ Please.” _

It’s not fully real, but it feels good to say. It’s so late in the night that the only thing that can pass between them is dreams. What’s a little more of her sexual oddness bubbling between them tonight? He doesn’t seem to mind.

He lets out a deep breath, his stomach caving on the exhale to bring her ever-closer. 

“My name is Ben.”

At last. She can put a name to the face and the voice. Things that are supposed to happen all at once had been scattered by the wind to recollect after a number of years. Now she has every piece back in her hands. 

Ben snuggles her in his arms now that he is known to her.

_ “Hmm,” _ she tucks her head under his chin, closing her eyes. They have to go soon, he’s done and it’s so late, but she may just nod off again. 

He breathes unsteadily as he holds her. The lax muscles of her cunt leak her slickness all over his shaft. 

“And you’re mine now.”

Unbothered, Rey lets out a sleepy breath.

“Okay.”


End file.
